Eternal Blood
by Merlyn Pyndragon
Summary: Claire had been alone when Sylar came for her, to take her powers of rapid flesh-regeneration. But what if Sylar was met with his rival? What if Peter was there? Slight violence. Partially a re-write of The Second Coming. No slash, rated for language.
1. Raccoons and Popcorn

**'Sup, y'all. First Heroes fic, and I'm aimin' to please :) This isn't really a re-write...well, it sort of is. Not really. Kinda. It's just a...re-write...of how Sylar attacks Claire in her house to get her rapid flesh-regenerating power. I'd hoped to make it a OneShot, but it's turned into a...erm, a ThreeShot. Yeah.**

**Hats off to Serias for beta-ing! :D Thank you, amico! (Instead of calling the story Raccoons and Popcorn, I'm calling the first chapter Raccoons and Popcorn, okay? ;) )**

**And _you!_ *points meaningfully* ...Enjoy Eternal Blood! :D**

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~1~ Raccoons and Popcorn

Lyle rolled his eyes. Only a girl would be able to tell the difference between the two bottles of pink nail polish his sister was holding up.

"Come on, Lyle. Fairy Bubblegum or Pigmy Puff?"

"How about Barf City?"

"Lyle!" Claire surrendered. "Fine." She turned away, hiding a smile. It was fun to torment her younger brother so. She replaced the bottles of nearly identical nail polish on her dresser and picked up a different one entirely, a glistening blue. She sat on her bed and twisted the silver lid off of the polish-remover. "What did you want again?" The harsh, chemical odour of the remover filled her nostrils, but she ignored it.

Lyle was already pushing himself away from the door frame of Claire's room, casually retreating backwards. "I'm going out."

Claire was concentrating on getting the remains of the dark red flecks off her toenails. She was unnerved by the fact that they almost looked like old, dried blood. "Going out where?"

"To the movies."

"With whom?"

"My friends."

"Until what time?"

"Ten...eleven—I don't know, _Mom!_" Lyle finally stormed away, leaving an air of disgruntlement in his wake. Claire smiled to herself as she used a cotton ball to clean off the last of the old nail polish.

_Ah, to have the house to myself_, she thought blissfully. Her father was out on some "business trip" and her mom was with Mr Muggles at a dog fashion show. They would all be away for hours.

She heard the signature creak only the front door possessed. Claire couldn't help but deal one last sally.

"Lyle, did you empty the dishwasher?" she called, trying to keep the teasing smile from her voice.

Lyle, evidently, had a sporadic tendency to become temporarily deaf at inconvenient times, and this appeared to be one of those episodes. The front door swung closed a little faster than necessary and, moments later, the rev of an eager engine growled through Claire's bedroom window. She could have sworn that she heard a shriek of tires at the end of the dark street, but she couldn't be sure if they were his.

Silence at last. It was almost eerie when Lyle wasn't around. There's always some racket that came with his presence, be it loud, bass-dominant music, war video games or thriller TV shows blasting from the living room. Partnered up with the absence of Mr Muggles and his coarse, airy bark, the Bennet house was something of a silent movie.

_Spooky_, she thought, then said it aloud just to hear something other than the soft tapping of the miniature brush on the polish bottle. "Spoooookyyy..."

The minute hand of the clock crept up on its smaller co-worker to signify a passing hour, and Claire finally added the final touches on her now blue-nailed toes. Wiggling them between the foamies that kept them separated, she screwed the lid back on the bottle and carefully scooted off the bed. Her stomach was reminding her that it was yet time for her favourite night snack of microwave popcorn.

She was preparing to leave her room when the urgent _whirrr!_ of her vibrating cell phone declared that she had a message. She paused, contemplating. Should she ignore it? Curiosity dragged her back across the room to the glowing phone, and she picked it up before flipping it open. It was from Peter.

Claire scowled. She was mad at Uncle Peter. He had told her to return to Costa Verde and to stay out of it all, out of the war against those who wished her and her kind ill.

_As if _he_ isn't one of us_, she thought vehemently. _He's in danger just as much as I! _

She seriously considered ignoring the message again. _But what if he's asking for help?_ she wondered, but knew full well that this wasn't the case. It would _never_ be the case because Peter was a pig-headed, mouse-brained son of a—

_Whirrr!_

It was her phone again. This time, the message briefly flashed, _Please?_

Heaving a sigh, Claire scrolled to Peter's first message and read it begrudgingly.

_Claire we need 2 talk. Can i come c u?_

The cheerleader couldn't help but smirk. It was always amusing to see an adult try to relate to a teenager by using text abbreviations whenever possible.

_Please?_

The newest message finally tipped Claire over.

_Fine_, she texted, thumbs tapping rapidly on the little buttons. A hummingbird's heart beat almost as fast. _I'm making popcorn_. She sent the message and made for the door again. As she neared the bottom of the stairs, her cell buzzed again.

_Having ketchup with that?_

"_WHAT?_" Claire almost stumbled down the last few steps as she hastily replied with that same word.

A few moments later, Peter sent,_ Jk ;)_

"Petrellis," said Claire with a roll of her eyes and a smirk.

There weren't nearly enough lights on downstairs. She flicked on the kitchen's and the living room's, then her father's office's for good measure. She made sure the back door was locked and that no windows had been broken into. It was a customary routine now. She also checked to see if her father's gun was where it always was and that there was the baseball bat in the foyer closet. They were.

Peter had been in Texas, last she saw him. Glancing at the clock, she guessed that he would arrive in California within...five more minutes. She migrated for the kitchen, methodically rooting around in the cupboard for the last package of microwave popcorn, fake butter and all. The clear packaging preventing her from preparing her favourite snack stubbornly refused to tear open despite her efforts, and after several fruitless attempts, she tried to open a drawer for the scissors. As was typical, someone had shoved something in and now the drawer was stuck from the inside.

_Probably Lyle's doing_, she thought grumpily, opening it as wide as she could and reaching in blindly. She gasped and withdrew her hand, the thin line of sliced flesh gushing an alarming amount of blood.

"What the hell?" Even as the cut healed itself as per usual, Claire took up a wooden spoon and awkwardly shoved it into the drawer, using it to push down whatever had caught. Eventually, with a few mild curses and loud bangs, the drawer yanked open, revealing the Exacto knife that had been left with the blade exposed.

Scowling, she cleaned the bloodied blade and then pushed the thumb pad down, sheathing it. What idiot left it—

A clang, followed by rustling.

Freezing, Claire's fist automatically clenched around the knife and pushed the blade out again. It sounded like someone had knocked over the garbage can outside.

_Raccoons_, she thought in reassurance. _There are raccoons in California, aren't there? Or a cat_.

Even so, she wished Mr Muggles was there. Not for protection, being the little cotton puff that he was, but for an advance alarm system.

The window blinds, suddenly, seemed very far away. She stared at them, hoping that they would become transparent so she could see who was creeping around the house. She realized that her heart was pounding, and no amount of soothing breathing patterns could curb its frantic gallop.

"Peter?" she finally called, trying not to let her voice tremble. Silence. And not just any silence. It was the silence of someone trying to be silent. She'd felt that suspicious tingle of malaise before, an instinctive sense that has saved her in the past.

The refrigerator rumbled to life, and she nearly screamed.

_This is ridiculous!_ she snapped at herself, and she threw the Exacto knife down on the counter. She stormed for the back windows and yanked open one of the shutters. Sure enough, the guilty culprit was rooting through yesterday's supper of pizza and chicken wings. A thin crust was held between the raccoon's dexterous hands and was swiftly vanishing into its ravenous mouth. Two reflective eyes appeared on the black bandit mask, gazing at her fearlessly, almost bored despite Claire's shooing.

The cheerleader had half a mind to fetch the broom, but hesitated. There was a mess already anyway and the thieving creature needed to eat, too – but then, it would keep coming back for more once it discovered that no one meant it harm.

She sighed and made for the broom closet. It took her a while to realize that she had seen something flash through the shutters of another window, one that faced a street light near the front of the house. Again, she stilled, eyes wide as she strained her eyes and ears for further sights or sounds.

The doorbell rang.

The broom fell with a clatter from her jerking hands. There was an uncomfortable tightness in her chest, the results of the scare. A prickling between her shoulder blades indicated that it was time to start running.

_Sylar!_

...No, Sylar wouldn't use the doorbell.

This time, someone knocked.

"Claire? It's me."

Hearing Peter's voice was like hearing the three o'clock bell on Friday afternoons. Claire practically sprinted for the front door, fumbling with the lock before yanking it open.

Peter's warm, askew smile greeted her, but it immediately faded at her anguished look, which she had failed to conceal in time.

"Claire, are you all right? What's going on?" He was instantly on the alert, casting his gaze around for potential danger. It was rare that the cheerleader saw him legitimately relaxed these days.

She sighed, smiling. "Oh, it's nothing. I was just spooked by a raccoon, that's all."

Peter calmed, albeit minutely. He grinned. "Raccoons. Those can carry diseases. Very dangerous."

"Yes, Doctor Petrelli," recited Claire, half bowing and indicating for him to enter.

"No, just a nurse," he reminded, wiping his shoes on the mat.

"Have a nice flight?" Claire moved for the kitchen, letting Peter make himself at home.

He had hung up his coat and was shaking his legs most peculiarly. "No, actually. I've got speed right now."

"Ooh, sounds fun!" Her tone sounded relieved, glad that he hadn't been someone else.

_Someone like Sylar_, Peter thought darkly. He moved further into the house, giving surreptitious glances into unlit corners. "Your parents out?"

"For hours!" the cheerleader declared happily. The opening and closing of the microwave was pursued by a rapid sequence of beeps.

Peter stepped closer to the kitchen, noticing as he did so that a back window had been uncovered. While the rumbling of the microwave filled the air, he moved for that window, his foot catching on something as he went. He glanced down and saw that it was a broom.

"Doing a bit of late-night cleaning?" he asked, casually enough. He bent over to pick it up.

"Oh, that." Claire waved a careless hand. "I was going to shoo away the raccoon with that."

Peter straightened with the broom and glanced out the window to the back porch, seeing the pile of garbage and the creature in question there. "Ah ha. There you are."

He unlocked the sliding door and stepped out into the cool California night air. A light breeze ruffled his chestnut hair as he marched for the hissing raccoon, waving the broom around.

"Go! Go on, get out!" He watched with satisfaction as the defeated beast waddled away, bush tail bristling with vexation.

"Dealt with," he said with his usual lopsided smile, slipping the broom back into its cupboard.

"What would I do without you?" said Claire with a singsong voice, fluttering her eyes and weaving her arms like an airhead princess.

"Burn the popcorn, I should suspect."

Claire spun around with a curse, but then saw that the bag had barely begun to swell. She punched her uncle in the arm and he ducked away, chuckling. Then her face crumpled, and Peter frowned.

"What's wrong?"

There was that sadness in her eyes, a look Peter had seen too many times for his liking. It was one that suffered loneliness and neglect, and, suddenly, he remembered his reasons for being there. "Claire—"

"You said you wanted to talk to me," she interrupted curtly, crouching to get a bowl from a lower cupboard.

The tone was biting, and Peter winced. "I...I know I haven't been, well, the best of friends to you."

"Good start." Sarcasm.

Peter clenched his jaw, hating himself. "I've been pushing you away, now of all times...And it was wrong of me."

"I'm glad you've noticed." More sarcasm.

Again, the man had to push through the tense air. "You're old enough to make your own decisions, but you must understand that I was just trying to protect you—"

"Yeah, because my dad doesn't do enough of that!" The sarcasm was oozing all across the floor now. Her words still triggered something in Peter's memory.

"Nathan—" He bit his tongue. _Fool!_

Too late. Claire spun on her heels, hands on hips. "What about Nathan?" she demanded. "Is he sorry that he forgot my birthday?"

Peter frowned. Nathan had indeed forgotten her birthday—his own daughter's—but the nurse had covered for him. How would Claire know that—?

Claire scowled. "Come on, Peter. You're his brother. You should know of his busy life. Besides, what 'he' gave me could only be something that _you'd_ give me." She smiled, and this time, it was genuine. "Thank you. I've been wanting to learn since...well, since this all began."

Peter harrumphed, flicking his bangs back off his forehead. "I'm sure Noah didn't approve."

Claire looked mockingly considerate. "Biological father doesn't remember, adoptive father doesn't approve, uncle is the only one who does both." She smiled like a vixen for a moment. "I can empty a perfect round at fifty metres now."

The nurse held his grin even though the thought of his niece holding a gun unnerved him just as much as it would Noah. But he knew that she needed to be able to defend herself, because she wasn't a simple teenage girl with a teenage life, not anymore. Gun lessons seemed...he hesitated to say _appropriate_, just...necessary.

"So, uh..." He paused. "Do you forgive me?"

There was a mischievous glint in her eye. "For now." She turned, but not before Peter saw the grin spreading.

The room was filling with the homey smell of popcorn, a treat Peter couldn't recall having for some months.

_I need to request a break from work_, he reflected as Claire cut the bag open and filled the bowl. He smiled at her irritation of how many kernels had stubbornly refused to pop. He followed her into the living room, where a comfy couch and flat screen TV awaited to serve them.

"So," he said, "what have you in mind?"

"Well, _I_ have a sudden craving for _The Dark Knight_," Claire replied, and Peter nodded.

"Who says Batman can't be for girls?"

The cheerleader checked the cabinet for the DVD, but when that endeavour proved in vain, she hunted around the couch cushions. "Urg. Lyle must have taken it up to his room." She left Peter to make himself comfortable, hastening up the stairs. Content to wait, Peter flopped himself down on the couch and reached for his first mouthful of popcorn in ages, only to notice something...amiss.

He blinked, staring at the reflective cabinet glass and TV screen. Whipping his head around, he saw Noah's closed office across the way, the blinds pulled down and the lights off. Peter sat up, twisting his upper body to get a better view. Weren't the lights on in there when he came in? Perhaps Claire had flicked them off when he was chasing out the raccoon...but why? And why were they on in the first place? Admittedly, it was often difficult to so much as cross his _own_ apartment with the lights off these days, for anyone could be lurking in the shadows. Agents, serial killers—anyone. Still, he thought it queer.

Then, movement. He definitely saw movement.

Claire's call from upstairs startled him.

"I'll be down in a moment!"

A door closed, and Peter took the opportunity to investigate the office. Certainly, there was every chance that he was chasing shadows, but he'd rather feel foolish for a moment than feel anxious for hours, wondering if something was waiting, biding its time before it struck their unsuspecting backs—

He yanked open the office door, there before he even realized it. His hand frantically felt for the light switch, and for one ridiculous moment, he thought it was gone. Then light flooded the room and he winced. They were excessively bright. No wonder Claire had them on, if not temporarily.

The office was a typical home work room, with a cluttered desk and a PC drowning in sticky notes. Stacks of metal filing cabinets lined all four walls, some with drawers wide open, others locked shut. A lamp, swivel chair and loud clock completed the room. No Agents, no serial killers.

Peter snorted derisively at himself. _Too many days spent running_, he thought with a shake of his head.

Out of impulse, he checked a few drawers and located the gun Noah kept for emergencies. He memorized its place and switched off the light, starting to pull the door closed as he turned around. Unfortunately, he was not expecting to see Sylar standing right behind him. His powers of speed were useless as the murderous clock repairer lifted a lazy hand and casually flicked a finger, sending the nurse flying back into the abyss of the office.

Unseen restraints held him flat against the far wall while an invisible hand clamped around his mouth, silencing him. Peter cringed as multiple push tacks on the cork board stabbed into his back, painful as nails.

Sylar, once placid and docile Gabriel Grey, lifted a finger to his lips, shushing his prey teasingly.

"Hello, _brother_," he said, the whispers of a hungry snake.

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**The seasons are kind of confused in my head, and for the life of me, I can't remember if Peter still had his real powers when Sylar took Claire's ability or not. In any case, this doesn't really follow—what is it called? Canon? —as you've probably noticed.**

**I like Peter x3**


	2. The Watchmaker's Son

**Hey, Jdragonfire29! :D Yeah, I'm talking to you, seeing as you're the only one who alerted ;) Thanks, mate C: And to you, Teamtiva and namelessip, for reviewing!**

**I forgot to disclaim. Again. Anyway, I own nothing of Heroes except Peter. He's in my closet.**

**Ha! got your attention! x}**

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~2~ The Watchmaker's Son

Claire dried her hands on towels that, in her opinion, were simply too fluffy. Stepping out of the bathroom, she scooped up _The Dark Knight_ from a small table in the hall and headed for the stairs.

"I was right," she said, descending them. "It was in Lyle's room, peeking out from beneath three layers of...clothes...Peter?"

The room was empty.

She walked past the kitchen and into the living room, making for the sliding back door. "Chasing more raccoons?" Glancing out, she saw that Peter in fact wasn't chasing more raccoons. She noticed how filthy the back porch was because of the first encounter, but she ignored the mess and pulled her head back inside.

_Perhaps he used the downstairs bathroom_, she thought, moving to glance down the hall and expecting to see a thin light beneath the door of said facility. She frowned as she saw that that wasn't the case either.

Swallowing, Claire took a deep, reassuring breath. Peter wasn't kidnapped by Agents or a serial killer. There would have been a lot of noise if that happened...Unless he was shot with taser darts. That thought sent Claire's head whipping around to view the dark corners of the house.

"Peter?" She checked the couch in case he had lain down and fallen asleep, an odd but possible occurrence. She was disappointed to find it barren of the nurse.

She realized her heart was pounding again. Perhaps it was because she had just noticed that the lights in her father's office were off, when she was _sure_ that she had turned them on.

A clink of what sounded like tapping plates sounded from the kitchen. She whirled around, suspiciously scanning over the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room. Was Peter just...hiding?

"Peter, stop fooling around!" she said good-naturedly, slipping around the counter, but there wasn't anyone there. Her smile faded. "This isn't funny!" she called out to the house in general.

A familiar guitar began to strum, the homey sound of her mother's favourite band, _The Beatles_.

Claire spun to face the stereo in the living room. The glass case protecting it was closed and the remote was on the low table before the couch. But the stereo was indubitably the source of "Yesterday." She rushed to the remote and pounded on about five different buttons before finding the power. _The Beatles_ stopped abruptly, filling the house with silence once more. She realized how naked she felt, how defenceless, and made for the foyer closet, where she knew a baseball bat was hiding. With its familiar weight in her hands, she felt a little better.

She wandered the house, bat held up like she was ready to swing at a ball that could fly at her at any moment. Her eyes never stopped moving, flashing from shadow to shadow, reflection to reflection to make sure no one was following her.

_Hm. No one. How about no thing?_

Sylar, monster that he was, had been after her powers of rapid tissue regeneration for almost two years, but there had been no word of him for over a month, now. It was still foolish of her to think that they had chased him off for good.

The sound of clinking porcelain stopped her, abreast with the bathroom. Bat up, she slowly reached for the handle.

_On three_, she told herself. _One_—

She didn't even bother waiting the extra two seconds, picturing herself losing her nerve at the last moment. She threw the bathroom door back and saw someone staring back at her, preparing to swing something.

She screamed, swung clumsily at the air and ducked. When nothing happened, her brain caught up with her eyes and the uncomfortable feelings of foolishness mixed with relief filled her, taunting her rushes of adrenaline. It had only been a mirror, a reflection of herself upholding the baseball bat. The bathroom was empty.

She pulled the door closed and continued down the hall, casting furtive glances over her shoulder.

"Peter?" she whispered faintly into the dark den at the end, desperate for his comforting presence. She always felt safe when he was around—

The floor creaked behind her. She swung the bat, hard, as she spun, aiming at head level.

"_Whoa_, Claire!" Peter ducked beneath the bat and dodged away, eyes wide. "What are you doing?"

"Peter!" She rushed to hug him, squeezing him nearly in two. He grunted in surprise.

"I wasn't gone _that_ long!" he laughed as she released him.

"Well, where did you go?" Claire demanded, letting the bat fall onto the den chesterfield.

Peter grimaced. "Thought I saw something outside." He flicked his head redundantly. "Just getting jumpy, I suppose."

Claire grew suspicious. "So you didn't turn on the stereo, then?"

"The stereo?" Peter frowned. "I thought that was you."

The cheerleader merely blinked, growing stiff again. "I...think there's someone in the house."

It was Peter's turn to go on the alert. "Are you sure?" He glanced down the hall unnecessarily, turning away from Claire to do so. It was then that she noticed the dark stain on his back.

"Peter, you're bleeding!"

"What?" The nurse faced her, confused.

"On your back, you're bleeding! Let me see." Claire froze when Peter backed away uncertainly.

"I'm sure I'm fine," he said, smiling, and then Claire blanched. That was _not_ Peter's smile. It was too...cold, devilish, _straight_. He must have seen the realization in her features, for he was fast enough to pick up the baseball bat before she did, using telekinesis with contemptuous ease. There was a dark gleam in his eyes.

"It's a little late to be playing ball, isn't it?"

Claire made a dash for the door, which meant a straight charge at the Peter who wasn't Peter. Strangely, Sylar let her pass, shedding his shape-shift disguise as he stood aside. He unclenched his hand, and the bat fell uselessly with a clatter.

Claire's bare feet slid wildly on the sleek floor as she rounded the corner from the hall, into the living room. Her hands sought frantically for her father's office door nob, but as she finally clasped it, it only turned half an inch in either direction. It had been locked from the inside.

"Peter!" she screamed, banging hard on the door with both fists. "_Peter!_"

He had to be in there. He _had_ to. Why else would the door be locked, the blinds down and the lights off?

She felt the presence of Sylar slither up behind her like the snake he was. She hadn't even seen him exit the hallway. Without turning around, she fled for the front door. Of course, it, too, was locked and barred by an invisible force.

A moment later, the dozen escape plans that had whirled through her head like paper in a tempest burned and crumpled to ashes. The unseen serial killer had simultaneously shut every window and slammed the shutters over them. The sliding glass door was also locked and covered. Claire wouldn't be surprised if the _vents_ were closed as well.

The lights flickered.

_Don't go out don't go out don't go out—_

Again they flickered, and held.

_Then_ they went out.

Like a bird in a dark cave, Claire stood stock still, eyes roaming ceaselessly as they adjusted to the meagre light. Her heart thudded louder than a gong in her chest, her palms sweating and her muscles taunt like bowstrings. She heard a rustle, someone brushing past a table. She thought she saw a silhouette, cast by the thin streams of light that bled through the sliding door's blinds.

The blinds! They weren't shutters. She could throw a chair at them, tear through them and shatter the glass.

As though reading her thoughts, the silhouette moved between her and the back door, and Claire was instantly reminded of all those thrillers and horrors Lyle used to beg her to watch with him. The vampires, zombies, and psychopathic killers that rose from the shadows to kill and eat their hapless victims now filled Claire's inner eye.

She mused how Sylar had attributes of all three of those classic movie monsters.

Without thinking, Claire turned and fled for the stairs. She didn't make it far. She had almost reached the foot of them when an invisible hand, Sylar's favourite weapon, shoved her against the foyer closet, pinning her a few inches above the floor. She writhed angrily as the murderer came to stand before her.

"What have you done to Peter?" she snapped. Even she was surprised of the anger that stepped before the fear.

Sylar's signature, wolfish smile split across his dashing features. In the limited light, it was truly a foreboding sight to behold.

Claire remembered the blood on the shirt Sylar was wearing. It was Peter's shirt.

"_What—did—you—do?_" she screamed, struggling to pull her arms away from the wall and strangle him.

"He is..." The serial killer paused, looking off into the distance for a moment. "_Indisposed_." He stretched and yawned impudently, glancing about. "Ooh. Popcorn."

Leaving Claire on the wall, he wandered over to the couch and sat down, taking up the bowl and daintily tasting a few pieces. The lights flashed back on, but only in the living room.

"Been a while since I've had good comfort food," he said, eating more popcorn with relish. Then he seemed to remember that Claire was still suspended. "Oh, how rude of me. Come, sit here and have some."

Claire gasped as Sylar released her, letting her fall to her knees on the floor. Immediately, she started for the breakable back door, but with a derisive wave of his hand over his shoulder, Sylar trapped her with a wall of telekinesis. She was stuck fast. Then her treacherous feet began to force her further into the living room, toward the murderer with agonizing slowness and surety. She realized that she was crying and furiously wiped the tears away awkwardly with her shoulder. They kept coming, however, no matter how hard she tried to swallow them.

"Bring that movie with you, if you would be so kind," said Sylar, not looking over his shoulder. "I do like a good Batman film."

Claire's feet detoured back toward the counter that divided the living room from the kitchen. There, she had left _The Dark Knight_—and the Exacto knife that had cut her earlier in the stuck drawer.

Her arms were released, and she willingly picked up the DVD, snatching the Exacto knife as she did so and slipping it into her sweatshirt pocket. Sylar never suspected at thing.

Or so she hoped.

She was forced to start the movie and then sit down right next to him. His arm wrapped around her shoulders and pulled her close. He smelled better than she'd imagined, but he might as well have been a mound of compost to her. More tears streamed down her cheeks; she'd never felt so violated in all her life.

Sylar laughed at one point in the movie, and Claire flinched. She hadn't been paying it the slightest bit of attention, so focused she was on figuring out what she was going to do. Her captor had thankfully loosened his hold on her a little, letting her shift around, but then, his arm would hug her tighter if she tried to move away. She could feel his heart through her shoulder. His beat once for every three of Claire's.

_He must be entirely convinced that no one can do anything now_, she thought in despair. _Peter...where are you?_

She was itching to reach for the Exacto knife in her pocket, but she knew that if she moved too slow – or too fast for that matter – the one and only opportunity to save herself would be lost. However, if she took too long, it would be lost anyway. Sylar would get her ability, and he would be unstoppable.

For a while, she watched the film, unwittingly drawn by a chase scene. Sylar must have lowered his guard as well, for he paid her no heed when she casually put her hand in her sweatshirt pocket. She felt the reassuring blade there and unlocked it with a soft click. Forcing herself to keep her breathing steady, she pushed the blade out and tightened her grip, making sure not to make her pocket move.

"I hope they let this guy live," said Sylar suddenly as he tossed popcorn jauntily into his mouth, watching the Joker laugh shrilly and demoniacally. "Villains don't get much better than that." He smirked, and Claire smirked with him. She knew that it was time. Lyle wouldn't be home for a few more hours, and her father had no chance of helping her. It was now, to do or die. And she's died several times.

The Exacto knife flashed out of her pocket and sliced across Sylar's belly. He howled as he jumped to his feet, and Claire, bloodied blade raised, tried to slash at his throat. Too slow, she lost her balance as Sylar ducked away, and he lunged forward to grapple her wrists. Raw terror compelled Claire to kick and squirm violently, desperate to get away from the monster.

"Bad decision," Sylar hissed, shoving her back.

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**Reviews are greatly appreciated, but if you have nothing to say, _nessun problema, amici _:) ****I'll just assume that by getting this far, you...tolerate it...maybe enough to, you know, maybe...alert or something...you know... *Curls up and hides in closet...with Peter...* **


	3. Save the Cheerleader

**Last chapter, mates. A big, fuzzy thank you to those who reviewed, alerted, and favourited! :D**

**Rating has changed to M because of a wee bit of cussing. Better too high than too low, I always say.**

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~3~ Save the Cheerleader...

"Bad decision," Sylar hissed, shoving her back.

Arms pinwheeling for balance, Claire then tried to flee even though she knew the endeavour was wholly fruitless. Sylar lashed out and an invisible whip snatched the Exacto knife from her hand. She gasped, then screamed as she was shoved face first into the wall near the mouth of the corridor, pinned once more.

"Not a very good host, are you?" Sylar forced Claire around to face him, and she saw that he was trying to staunch the blood from the wound on his stomach with Peter's shirt. It was proving difficult, so he went into the kitchen, out of her view, for a dish cloth. Claire was secretly pleased to see that she'd managed to injure him as well as she did, not that it did much to help her situation.

"Well, I'll just have to try harder next time, won't I?" she said flatly, glad that her tears had finally stopped and her voice ceased to tremble. She fought valiantly against Sylar's telekinesis, to no avail as usual, glaring daggers at her captor as he came around from the kitchen. "_You_ should learn how to play fair!" she snapped, feeling an odd thrill at the sight of the bloodied cloth held at Sylar's stomach.

The murderer shrugged. "Hm. Guess you're right." He indicated the wound. "But I won't get the chance if this kills me. Not without the eternal blood." The finger pointing at his belly turned to point at Claire's forehead instead. "To live forever..."

Claire screamed as she felt the first drill cut through flesh and bone.

A loud crash, then a blast of air and sound and Sylar was gone. Claire collapsed onto her hands and knees, already feeling her skull heal itself, and she turned her head to see Peter wrestling with Sylar on the living room floor.

Peter's white undershirt was stained red from an angry gash on his back, the wound that had blemished the shirt Sylar stole for his disguise. He seemed oblivious to the pain as he rolled away from his archenemy, vanishing with the speed of sound before Sylar could immobilize him. An instant later, the nurse was back, swinging fists at the stunned serial killer and moving almost too fast for the eye to see.

Claire was captivated by the speed. It was astonishing, surreal. Sylar was knocked flat several times, his nose broken and skin split in the places where Peter's aim proved true. For a moment, the cheerleader thought that Sylar was finally beat.

_Kill him, Peter_, she thought venomously. _Kill him!_

Sylar lashed out with telekinesis, and his assaulter had to retreat. The brief reprieve allowed him to turn to Claire, vengeance in his eyes. The cheerleader screamed as a bolt of electricity leaped from his outstretched hand and engulfed her, burning her from the inside out.

Peter, charging back at Sylar with the gun from Noah's office in his hand, slammed to a halt at his niece's shriek.

"Claire—! _Ow!_" An unseen force grabbed him by the middle and threw him to the ground, the gun spinning from his hand. He lay there, gasping, and was helpless as the force then dragged him across the floor into the kitchen, to bash his skull against the fridge. He groaned, head spinning.

Sylar stood over him, breathing heavily through his mouth. His teeth were bloodied from Peter's attack as he grinned down at him. "Interesting. No more need for bus tickets."

Glaring, Peter was about to bolt, but Sylar's hand flicked before he could. A knife from the wooden holder flashed before Peter's eyes, reflecting the fear within, and then he screamed as it was driven through his right hand, into the floor.

Sylar leered as his quarry struggled to pull the knife out. "Ah ah ah!" he said, daintily waving a finger and shoving him flat on his back. A second knife, with a serrated edge, slid out of the holder on the counter and plunged into Peter's other wrist. The nurse howled in utter agony, writhing against his restraints in spite of Sylar's warnings.

The serial killer sighed at his efforts, already picking up a third knife. "Don't make me do it, Peter," he said, letting the blade hover at the base of his enemy's throat, point down for a fatal thrust. Finally, Peter stopped squirming, his chest heaving for breath as he glowered, lip curled in a soundless snarl. His dark eyes were aflame with disgusted rage, disgust at his own weak helplessness, rage at Sylar's perverted existence.

Stifling his triumph, Sylar took up a tea towel from the oven door handle and wiped his face with it, trying in vain to clear the blood oozing from his broken nose. He sighed again.

"I almost wish you had your original powers," he said coolly. "You were more fun to play with then."

Peter glared, trying not to picture the blood that would be gushing all over the floor from his left wrist and right hand. His vision was swimming. From the pain? Blood loss? In either case, he was running out of time.

"Leave—Claire—_alone!_" he growled lamely, and Sylar's eyebrow twitched.

"We are in Raphael's paintings, Peter," he said, "not Michelangelo's. The world is an imperfect place, no matter how hard you try to smooth it with a paintbrush."

"What the fuck!" Peter snarled. "Stay the fuck away from her!"

Again the eyebrow perked. "...Is that it?" he said. Then he turned, turned away, turned to confront Claire.

"Sylar!" Peter tried to rip his hand free, howling as flaming razor blades stabbed up his arm with every movement. "_SYLAR!_"

Claire screamed even louder than him, and his voice split as his hand slid up an inch along the blade, closer to the handle. The kitchen ceiling swirled before his eyes. All he could hear were his niece's shrieks of agony as Sylar did his satanic work.

_A wolf may chew off its own paw to escape a trap_, he thought, finally turning his head to look at his stabbed hand, muscles straining to yank it up and free it. His whole arm jerked as something gave—

And then he must have passed out, for all he remembered next was Claire's silence and that Sylar was at the kitchen sink, washing his hands.

"I left the knives in," he was saying, now splashing his face. "I'm no nurse like you, but I know that taking them out would have done you a whole lot more damage." He turned, smiling down at Peter with the charm of a fox as he dried himself on a towel. "Can't have you bleeding to death, now can we?"

Peter realized that the knives were indeed still in his wrist and hand, but they were no longer driven into the floor. There was a hot, red stickiness everywhere, and he knew he was going to bleed to death anyway.

He struggled to hold his eyes open. He felt so _tired_.

"W're 's...she?" he moaned sluggishly, and Sylar put a mocking hand to his ear.

"Sorry. What was that?"

"_Where is she?_" Peter realized that his enemy's nose was no longer crooked. The blows he had dealt him, the bruises and the broken skin, were no more. Sylar had Claire's ability. Sylar was now indestructible.

The murderer almost seemed to purr as his head ticked to the side. "Oh, where I left her. Don't worry—she'll make a full recovery, doctor." He smiled once more and stepped over Peter, casually letting the towel fall onto the counter. Wandering to the front door, he checked out the peep hole, smirking at what he saw. He turned back around and watched Peter dragging himself after him. His eyebrows rose inquiringly.

"You are most interesting, Peter," he said. "Strong. Determined. We should have coffee sometime." He made for the back door, moving slowly but still too fast for the nurse to catch him. "But right now, I think I'm about to intrude on a little family reunion."

Peter moaned, having gone so far but watching his window of opportunity close itself from him with every passing second. He saw Noah's gun in the shadows of a houseplant pot, but Sylar was getting further and further away.

"I'm saddened that I don't get to try out your power yet, too, Peter," the mendacious man was saying, slowly opening the sliding glass door. He shrugged, turning. "Well, life's full of disappointments—"

BANG BANG!

The bullets were stopped before they had reached two thirds of the way to Sylar. Peter sagged where he lay, still holding the gun up and aiming for what he'd hopped was his enemy but knowing that the metal cylinders had not met their mark. It was simply his last valiant attempt of revenge.

Sylar _tisk-_ed, hand twisting as he turned the bullets back around. "Peter, Peter, Peter," he said, and flicked his fingers.

* * *

Claire isn't sure why Sylar put her skull back on her head like a cap, for, frankly, his explanation didn't make a whole lot of sense. She wasn't "special" – at least, not special in regards to other people with abilities.

She lay in the hall uselessly for several minutes, marinating in her own blood, oblivious to the world until she heard the twin gunshots. The sounds whipped her out of her trance, a state that was probably due to the fact that her attacker had been playing with her brain, and she sat up in the hallway in shock. She heard Sylar's _tisk_-ing, then, "Peter, Peter, Peter." There were two small swishing sounds and then her uncle's pained grunt.

The sliding door was opened then and someone stepped outside. The last Claire heard of Sylar for a long time was his warning: "You guys have raccoons, you know that?" And he was gone.

Peter was bleeding, not only from the knives in his hand and wrist but from two bullet wounds in his chest. He gasped and coughed, then gasped and coughed again as his punctured lungs struggled for air.

Claire pulled herself across the floor towards him, her chest heaving peculiarly. She realized that she was sobbing.

"Peter," she gasped, the world blurring before her eyes into a hot salty mess. "Oh God..."

The nurse hiccoughed painfully. Was he trying to speak? His body jerking erratically, he seemed to want to lift his head to look at her, but it was too much effort. Blood. There was so much _blood_.

It was then that Sandra, Claire's mother, burst in through the front door, a Pomeranian yapping in one arm and a cellphone in the other hand. She must have been alarmed by the gunshots.

"Claire! What's going on...? Oh my—"

Sandra gaped, wide-eyed, at the sight of her daughter kneeling on the floor beside a dying man, blood bleaching her blonde curls crimson and pouring down her face with her tears. Mr Muggles yapped and squirmed in Sandra's arms, and she dropped the Pomeranian puff ball before he peed with excitement.

Claire said nothing, weeping silently as she shook her head. Words were as useful as throwing a pail of water at a dead fire.

Peter had some, though. "Claire," he croaked, raspy and weak. His eyes wavered hazily. "I'm so sorry—"

"_Shh_." Claire wiped her face furiously, sniffing and trying to slip on a brave face. "It's not your fault, Peter. _No_, Mr Muggles!" She shooed the dog away as he tried to lick Peter's bloodied face.

"I'll call an ambulance!" Sandra was already dialling.

"No! No, Mom, it's okay." Claire looked down at her uncle, whose eyes were starting to glaze over beneath the wings of death. His breath was weaker, still irregular. "Peter? Peter, look at me." She was trying to keep a level head, trying very heard. "_Look at me_."

Finally, he did, hazel eyes flickering vacantly to meet hers. He was choking on his own blood but still trying to smile.

"Never got any of that popcorn," he said feebly, and Claire angrily grasped his hand.

"Take my power, Peter," she retorted flatly. "Take it."

It would be incomprehensibly foolish for him to refuse. Focusing the rays of his mind like sunlight through a magnifying glass, he concentrated on the hand holding Claire's. The contact grew warm as he willed his body to take on the ability, draw it in like a sponge. He felt the familiar buzzing in his head as his nerves responded accordingly, a tingle in his fingertips and a pinprick behind his eyes. A moment later, the sensations were gone, the pain was fading, and his muggy mind was clearing like a spring day after April showers.

Never had pulling in a lungful of air felt so good. As the bullet slugs were pushed out of his body, the delicate fabrics of his chest swiftly smoothed over, draining the fluids where there should be none and refilling the places that should be full. A dull ache remained in each healed bullet wound for another second before his body realized that there was absolutely nothing wrong with it, not so much as a broken blood vessel. As for the knives in Peter's wrists and arms, he kindly asked for Claire to pull out the one in his wrist as fast as she could. The serrated edge tore more flesh away, and his cry of pain triggered Sandra's wail of horror.

"Mom! Mom, just be quiet!" Claire hissed as Peter used his now healed limb to remove the other knife quickly. He flexed his hand a few times, satisfied.

"Thank you," he said, pulling her into an embrace. "Are you okay?"

"What happened?" asked Sandra softly. "It...It wasn't...Was it...?"

Claire pulled away from her uncle, head down. Peter knew she was experiencing the common but completely irrational feeling that it was her fault she was attacked and violated.

"Sylar," she said just as quietly, as though afraid uttering the name would summon the watchmaker's son back.

Sandra, wordless, hastened forward and hugged her tightly.

"Don't tell Dad, please?" Claire said, voice muffled by her mother's coat.

"He has to know—"

"Why?" She pulled back. "Mom, he'll never trust me to be by myself again!"

"Claire." Peter's voice penetrated the tension like a glowing blade. "He must be warned. Sylar...he's indestructible now. Noah must know this."

The cheerleader gritted her teeth, treacherous tears slipping out from beneath her eyelids. "I know, I _know_. Just...don't tell him...until he gets home, okay? Wait for him to get home." She fell back into Sandra's embrace. Mr Muggles started to yap again in that airy way of his, like he had a frog in his throat.

For a while, all they heard was the end credits of _Batman: The Dark Knight_. It seemed like forever ago when Claire went upstairs to find it, unwittingly leaving Peter alone to be incapacitated by Sylar in Noah's office. The nurse still remembered the gash Sylar sliced on his back when he tried to escape, the sheer terror in the knowledge that he was unable to protect Claire.

"I'll stay here tonight," he said meaningfully. Even though the immediate threat was gone, it gave him no reason to lower his guard. A wasp can sting even when dead. "I don't think he'll come back, but..."

They all heard the sirens simultaneously and jerked like guilty vandals.

"Oh, yeah," said Sandra. "I called the cops before I came in."

"_What? _Mom—"

Peter interrupted. "Wait! We can cover this. Do you have, like, champagne or anything?"

"Champagne?!" Claire sounded incredulous.

"In the cellar," said Sandra, rushing to get a bottle.

"Claire, help me clean this blood, quickly!"

Peter and his niece wiped up the red mess that coated the kitchen and living room floors with old towels, which they threw down beneath the basement steps. Sandra returned with a bottle of champagne, unopened.

"Give it here." Peter took the bottle and tore off the foil before shaking it vigorously. "Heads up," he warned, and yanked the cork out. The resulting pop was loud, but not loud enough for the police pulling up, with their obnoxious, wailing sirens, to hear.

Sandra tried not to gasp in protest as fizzled champagne sprayed everywhere, making a real mess in the kitchen and foyer. Peter put the bottle on the counter just as someone banged on the front door.

"Police! Open up!"

"Claire, go upstairs, use the shower and clean yourself off." Peter hastened for the hall bathroom to use the sink. "You understand what's happening?" he hissed to Sandra, who nodded.

Both pretending to be cleaning of no more than champagne foam, the exchange between Sandra and the cops had to be retold to Peter and Claire later, after the patrol cars dissipated.

"I'd told him I was just outside when I heard the shot," Sandra said, feeding Mr Muggles a few pieces of popcorn. The four of them were sitting in the living room, ignoring how close the hour was to shifting into the next day. "When I called, I never specified how many I'd heard." She rolled her eyes. "You should have seen the look on the officer's face when I said that it was only you two popping a champagne bottle. I thought he was going to exp_lode_!"

"Good thinking," Claire said to Peter, who looked away, sheepish. He was, after all, the one who'd shot pointlessly at Sylar. Then she added, "You're going to be late for work tomorrow."

Peter grimaced. "Yeah, probably. I guess I could call Nathan. Free flights. First class." He grinned for a moment, but Claire's reflecting smile was hollow no matter how hard she tried. His grin faded, and a muscle in his jaw jumped.

_What happened to her is going to haunt her for a long time_, he thought angrily,_ haunt her like circling buzzards in an arid land_.

_So much for saving the cheerleader_...

"This isn't over," he said, determination reinforcing his words like solid marble. "Claire, he will pay for what he has done. I swear to you."

His niece simply smiled and rested her head on his shoulder. One hand reached for the snack bowl. "Perhaps. For now, I've yet to get my popcorn fix."

**Ң****εӷoε****s**


End file.
